Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Rosewall Hill

(I still don't have my camera, so apologise for rather squiffy horizons...)

The front door of my house should have a shaky cross drawn on it, there is so much lurgy lurking beyond.
Coughing and spluttering, nose blowing and violent sneezing are currently de rigeur within these walls. I bet you can't guess who is feeling most sorry for themselves? I'm being a complete baby instead of manning up, and getting on with it.

So this afternoon, I walked up Rosewall Hill. I can see the top of the hill from my living room window. I have always been struck by it's presence. It looms large above the top end of St Ives, wearing a crown of large stones. I sometimes wonder what it must have looked like before the town of St Ives crept up the Stennack. An imposing sight, I would imagine.

My favourite picture of Barbara Hepworth was taken on Rosewall. From here you can see the curve of St Ives Bay and beyond. The sea encircles the land, and if you stretch out your arms you can cradle it in your hands. I wonder if Ms Hepworth did just that? I read somewhere that this was one of her favourite spots to be. I can see why. It's not just the peace, but the sense of the shape of the earth and the elements that define and mould it. It must be amazing to watch a storm approach from over the sea.

Today it was cold, with strong winds that sent clouds scudding over the sky. The bare forms of stunted trees and bushes, punctuated by an acid yellow hit of gorse flowers were buffeted by wind and lit up by sun. Below a patchwork of fields, each a different colour, and farmhouses dotting the land here and there.

Even though my nose was streaming, and I was feeling hot and cold by turns, I felt a sense of calm up there on the hill. I stomped down the path and went back home to wash the cross off the door.